there is but one thing
i can offer a woman
who is resigned
to be a coward:

all of me.

and you take it,
your death irises gleaming
(those truths i held to,
as i held you, long ago.)

but that was then;
i was more naive, and
there were so many things
that i could keep from screaming.

the snow adorns your face,
a halo, signaling those nights
you spent in my bed.

but those were forgotten
when you took
the last sip of jesus' blood.
they were forgotten
when you closed the door and
i did not follow after.

so what would you have me do?
i can only count the roses
that circle the centuries
i will spend not having you.
i will count the minutes,
i will pass the time,
playing checkers,
drinking coffee and
not believing in god.

but you wouldn't be interested.

you're too busy turning your back
on the one thing that could save you,
the one hand that holds the noose.

you wouldn't let me break your neck,
wouldn't fall upon my rocks,
as i fell upon yours, and allowed
the world to tumble away.

the world, that disheartened fellow,
that comrade in arms.
that saving grace.

i tumbled into your throat,
in the presence of the moon,
and you swallowed.

you chewed me hard.

12/14/2003

Author's Note: rawr.

Posted on 12/15/2003
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe